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In the case of Pierce Carrington, violence sounds acceptable. Commendable. I actually feel the urge to applaud.
Something of my inner monologue must show on my face because Uncle Josh studies me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m great. This scone is absolutely delicious.”
My father excuses himself to go pack, leaving me alone with Uncle Josh. I’m glad because I need to ask him a question. It’s a question that has been sitting on the troubled edges of my mind all week and so far I’ve failed to scrounge up the nerve to ask my father.
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
My uncle grins. “Always.”
“It’s about Mom.” The word feels funny on my tongue. Probably because it’s not a word I use, not ever. My mother died before I could talk. I sure as hell never felt inspired to call Olivia that name.
His grin falters. “I’ll try to answer, Tessie.”
My father’s bedroom is on the other side of the house. He won’t hear us talking if I keep my voice low. It’s likely Pierce Carrington was only flinging out insults in the hopes something would stick.
On the other hand, maybe not. I know very little about my mother. She’s a photo in a frame. A timeless mystery.
I need a deep breath before pushing the words out. “Did she…struggle with mental health issues?”
Josh blinks. The question is not one he was expecting. “Not that I’m aware of. Diana never even seemed unhappy. She was very intelligent, very lovely. She grabbed everyone’s attention when she walked into a room. Definitely had a flair for the dramatic.”
The pang deep in my chest is not imaginary. How is it possible to miss someone you don’t even remember?
I don’t know how. You just do.
Even the circumstances surrounding her death are foggy. She’d gone to a friend’s house that afternoon. A luncheon with her college sorority sisters. Harmless. She had a few drinks and sunk to the bottom of the swimming pool when no one was paying attention.
“Was I there that day? Was I with her the day she died?”
Another question he doesn’t want to answer. “No, you weren’t. Diana didn’t bring you places.”
He shifts in his chair and I get the impression he didn’t mean to arrange his answer that way. The hint of a frown between his brows makes me wonder if he’s holding back.
But why would he, after all this time?
An alert lands on my phone the same second I spot a black Escalade pull up to the curb.
It’s easier just to text my father than to shout across the house.
Your ride is here.
Within seconds, he wheels out a black suitcase, garment bag slung over one arm, grumbling that he cannot find his iPad. I offer him mine.
He snatches the tablet from my hand and exits while I’m in the middle of reciting the main points of his itinerary. I’ll wait a little while and send him the list in writing. He’ll be expecting this.
Uncle Josh yawns and says he needs to get back to the station for a little while. West Emerald isn’t a hotbed of criminal activity but there are probably piles of paperwork sitting on his desk and my uncle takes every single aspect of his job very seriously. The old Ballerini work ethic.
He pauses by the door with his hand on his jaw, his eyes troubled, like there’s something he still needs to say.
I pour my unfinished coffee in the sink. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing at all.” He flips his uniform hat back on his head and winks. “You have a good afternoon, kid.”
He whistles a West Side Story tune as he strolls back to the squad car parked in the driveway.
When he’s gone, I take a nonchalant walk out to the front yard.
